A Budapest Ballet
by 95winters
Summary: Oneshot - Clintasha. Written for my friend, T'Reilani There was something graceful about her, and Clint probably would have thought that even as she had her gun pointed to him. And suddenly, he was more glad than even that he had brought her back.


A Budapest Ballet

With pistols strapped to their thighs and shotguns around their necks, 28 ballerinas glided onto the stage in the National Theater of Budapest. Behind closed curtains, they each positioned themselves into the correct stage markings. Of course, the audience would know the guns weren't loaded, they were simply to be used as props for the commemoration of the Hungarian-Romanian war in 1918. Though they had lost, the Hungarians were glad of the ending. Many had been lost, and what better way to show the respect for those who had died in battle than with beautiful ballerinas? It was simply another opportunity for theater.

Out in the audience, a quiet man in a black tux sat 52 rows back from the front, the first seat in from the isle. Without much wait, the curtains opened, the lights in the theater dimmed, and the show began. "Do you have a visual? Shouldn't you be closer?"

"I see better from a distance." Agent Barton replied subtly to his earpiece.

"Good. Don't cop out on us Barton." He didn't reply, but set his jaw and focused on the ballerinas on the stage. Pale pink tulle roughly contrasted by the dark machinery of the guns gracefully spun around the wide stage. Their limbs moved like ribbons, illuminated by the gold that glistened above from the ceiling.

Then Clint spotted her: his mission. Natasha Romanoff, with conspicuously common blonde hair twisted up in a bun, and eyes made dark and smoky to match the gun. She had been compromised – again. Clint shifted in his seat as he remembered the last time he had seen her. It was simple mission, it wasn't supposed to take long at all, especially with her skill set. Though it required her going back to the site of her original red-room training, Natasha was the best qualified for the job. And everyone knew Natalia Romanova was not only comfortable everything but was also stubborn about finishing a job.

But if Clint was being honest, Natasha, that was stupid.

She had gone and gotten herself caught. Now she was a danger; you can only become brainwashed and retrained so many times before you snap, and S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't think they could take another risk on her. Clint was just doing his job. Natasha was an excellent spy, a great fighter and a brilliant mind. Other than that, Barton didn't know too much about her. They had worked one mission together thus far, and the only other fact he had gather was, yeah, she could be stubborn.

In one swift move, the ballerinas tossed the shotguns from their necks to behind them on the ground. As they smacked the ground, they lined up in an even line as they continued their dance. Instead, they grabbed the pistols from the straps on their legs, and proceeded down the aisles in the theater, thrilling the audience. S.H.I.E.L.D. had known something was up as soon as they got wind of the Soviets putting Natasha in a play at all. There was definitely a reason for making her wear a tutu again, but they didn't want to see the end result. It was Clint's job now to take care of it, and make sure nothing further was ever attempted with her as their weapon.

Barton stiffened in his seat, watching as Natasha glided down the aisle of the _other_ side of his section. _Damn it. _He hopped up onto the backs of the seats in the row in front of him, and staying light on his feet, he ran across the backs to reach the other aisle. Suddenly, every ballerina stopped in their aisles, raised their left arm above their heads in a pose, and pointed their pistols at the end of the aisles.

Clint ran faster; he knew what was coming, there was no doubting it now. He didn't care why or who was the target, he could not let Natasha fire her supposedly empty gun. Within that last second, Hawkeye jumped, tumbling over Natasha's arm and grabbing it, pointing the pistol at the ceiling. The shot rang off loud, jolting even the climax of the classical that was playing; glass rained down.

Natasha lost control of the gun and it slid under the seats. She decked Barton hard in the face. He wasn't stunned still with surprise, but rather fought back. The audience gasped, beginning evacuation, at the sight of two seemingly distinguished people practicing martial arts in their theater. The tutu and the tie continued to struggle, each coming closer to the reach of the gun. Finally, Agent Barton gained control of the gun, Natasha Romanoff pinned down underneath him. She struggled, but her mind was too anxious to maintain strength.

He pointed the gun at her, ready to complete his mission. They stared at each other, breathing hard; seconds felt like miles, miles between their minds but seconds within the gun. Romanoff's eyes were full of fear, unlike the confident Black Widow he had worked with. They flicked over Clint's suit, lingering too long near his neck. Looking down, Clint saw that she had noticed his bronze arrow, pinned to his lapel. He liked to feel like himself when he had to dress up.

Adrenaline was beginning to subside. _Finish it, finish her, _his thoughts coerced him. _This is your job. She is dangerous. _Dangerous… Her eyes were flowing with fear, overwhelmed by a false identity. Agent Barton stiffened his muscles, took a deep breath, and…dropped the gun to his side.

She looked at him, breathing slightly more steady, but confused. No words would come, but he knew what she was thinking. _I don't deserve that._

"Everybody needs a second chance. Or a fifth." And Clint helped her up.

"Thank you." Romanoff had been fairly quiet; she honestly still didn't know what to think of the whole ordeal. No doubt her mind was incredibly muddled from the nonsense the Russians had probably been telling her. Sitting on the plane that would take both her and Agent Barton back to S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, she contemplated how she wasn't even sure whose side she was on.

"I'm going to be in a lot of trouble." Clint said, standing near a window. Then he looked at her and shrugged. He smiled softly at her and looked away again. "I hope it was worth it."

Natasha shifted in her seat. "Why did you do it?" Her dark-framed eyes looked up at him. _Dangerous…_

Clint swallowed and set his jaw before answering. "I think you're valuable. And you're strong. You've overcome them before and just because you were taken again doesn't mean you can't get through this. I believe in that, too."

Natasha smiled slightly and turned her head down.

"Now, you tell me, what was _your _mission?"

She looked straight in front of her, trying to search her mind for her reasoning. "I…I remember I was told…to shoot the gun. I rehearsed, day after day, remembering the precise steps I was to take. And then…shoot. There was to be a man standing at the back of my aisle. I had to make sure that he was there; I was the only one with a loaded gun."

"Who was he?"

"I don't know." She frowned. "They didn't tell me. I followed orders."

"Barton, what the _hell _have you done?" Clint was unlocking Natasha's handcuffs from the plane wall as Nick Fury met them in the S.H.I.E.L.D. garage.

"Sir, I realize this looks bad, that I may have compromised my mission, but…"

Fury cut him off before Clint could ramble on through his sorry explanation. "Follow me, Agent." Then he turned on his heel and led Clint to a back room where they could talk alone. _Damn, stupid. _He had screwed this up. Was it an impulse decision? Did he have more faith in people than he could bargain for? How much would this compromise his status?

Yet as stupid as he felt, Clint could not bring himself to fully regret his decision. He didn't care how mad Fury would be at him, he knew he made the right choice for himself. Okay, he cared a little. Clint Barton did not believe Natasha Romanoff needed to be killed for the injustice done to her, she was more valuable than that. If S.H.I.E.L.D. _really_ wanted to off her, they could do it themselves.

Fury finally stopped behind the table in the dim, gray room at the back of the garage. "Do you know why I sent you on that mission, Barton?" Clint shifted on his feet, crossed his arms, and waited for it nervously, his heart beating rapidly in his chest. He was more nervous now than he was when he knew for sure that Natasha's gun was loaded. "To see if you were competent." Clint lowered his head. This was it.

"And you did exactly as I had hoped." Clint's head shot up, directing a confused expression at Fury. "Agent Barton, this was a test, and you have done wonderfully. We need Miss Romanoff, but we also need to know that you can follow orders. I am glad to see that you did not let the influence of blind orders direct you when you knew the outcome would be wrong. I rarely test people like that, but we now have two brilliant agents on our side."

Clint smiled, relief washing over him. He wasn't out of a job. Better yet, he had actually _helped _S.H.I.E.L.D. "Wait, one more question," Clint asked Fury. "Who was she targeting?"

"The Soviets knew we were coming. We needed to give them a reason to send her out. So you could get her." Clint could barely comprehend all that had just happened. He was just glad that he hadn't completely screwed up his _or _S.H.I.E.L.D.'s intentions.

"Clearly, you saw something in Romanoff. Good work, Hawkeye." Out of the gray room's window, Clint looked back at Natasha. She was being handed a new gun by another S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, still in her ballerina costume. There was something graceful about her, and Clint probably would have thought that even as she had her gun pointed to him. And suddenly, he was more glad than even that he had brought her back.


End file.
